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I traveled to the Far Rockaways They aren’t past the city lights
And mental islands of roller coasters Curled in grey cranial
canals With or without Venitian punts the choice being yours
These things please me But I must admit When poets write poems
‘bout poetry Seems to me A bunch o’ bullshit Dark dank obscure
and stinky Making it undesirable to Transgress on green meadows
In bared feet Or wearing a red fez the choice being yours Should
the chance befall me I’d open Scruffy’s Mind of Buddhist Tea And
Eclectic Junk House And never Ever Write a poem ‘bout poetry Or
change my name to Larry the choice being mine |
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Palmer, AK
March 2k6 |
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Copyright 2006 Gregory Gusse All Rights Reserved |
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